It's Elementary, My Dear Idiot
by IrishFrenchy
Summary: This is a sequel to You Make Me Worry. Don't read this without having read it, it won't make any sense. This is written for the pilot. Revolves around the case from the first story. Just a warning for continued drug use. John can't save the world but he can save Sherlock. If it's the last thing he'll do he knows he will. Sherlock is his world. Kitten's seem to help, too. Johnlock
1. A Study In Designer Clothing

John sat quiet with Sherlock at his side for the entire ride to the crime scene. The only noise in the cab was the blower on their feet. His mind was in complete and utter turmoil, chaos and disarray caused by a little simple kiss and a few words.

_"I'm alright, as long as you're at my side."_

John's heart caught in his throat, and he looked over at the dark, curly haired detective. His eyes were on his phone, he was text messaging someone. He blinked a few times and sighed. He could barely think. He ended up paying the cabby too much money once they'd arrived at their destination. Sherlock, of course, noticed. Then he tripped on his way out of the taxi. He was just a bloody mess…

Lestrade lead them over to the crime scene, his white gloves in hand. Sherlock looked over at the ex-army doctor with an amused expression. 'Blast you and your handsome face,' John thought. He gave the detective an awkward smile as he walked. He didn't really know what Sherlock found amusing; perhaps it was that John couldn't get a sentence out straight, or that he couldn't _not_ watch Sherlock.

"So, we found her this morning," Lestrade chided in after a while. Sherlock chuckled to himself. "Obviously, otherwise you would have called me last night. Come now, skip the obvious details. You know how bored I was last night." Lestrade sighed, and Sherlock continued. "I was meaning to ask you… Why didn't you call my cellular? You called Mrs. Hudson's land line instead. I thought that was odd." John looked over at the DI, his mind obviously on the same page as Sherlock's. He seemed just as curious. Lestrade turned around, raising the crime scene tape for the two men to sneak under. "You didn't answer your cellular. I actually had called. I figured you were busy, so a few minutes later I called the home phone." After saying all that, he looked to John. The doctor began to blush a deep crimson and he looked to his loafers. Lestrade chuckled, his suspicions having been confirmed. Sherlock cleared his throat. "Right, well," he began. "Sorry, I didn't hear my phone ring. It was in the living room. Must have slipped my mind…"

The consulting detective couldn't even bare so much as a look in John's direction. "Okay, no worries," Lestrade said after a minute or so. Apparently that was good enough for him. Sherlock stepped under the tape, but much to John's dismay, waited for him as well. Lestrade's voice broke the little look they were sharing. "Anderson's over there, be careful. He's been a real hop in the ass today, I feel like he's going through menopause." The three men chuckled, knowing all too well Greg wasn't joking.

John followed Sherlock to the body. She was on her back, eyes closed. She wore a red cardigan and dark blue jeans. A dark beige coat covered mostly everything on her, as it was buttoned up. It looked to be her size. "Expensive clothing," John said, noticing the designer tags. "Mm…" Sherlock gave a little hum in agreement. They both knelt down next to her, almost simultaneously, and Sherlock watched as John made his usual assessments. "She hasn't been dead for twelve hours. Rigor mortis hasn't had a chance to set in. She didn't die from drowning, that's for sure. Her throat isn't closed up from salt water. It did rain last night, yeah?" Sherlock smiled a little, appreciating the doctor's keen eye. "No, no she didn't die from being drowned," he agreed. "It rained for a couple of hours last night. You were too busy blogging to notice, I guess." He took out his tweezers, lifted the shoulder of her shirt to find a bullet wound.

"How'd you notice that? She's got a coat on." John asked, wide-eyed. He looked at the wound. It was a high-caliber bullet, most likely. "Observation," Sherlock answered matter-of-factly. He took a folding magnifying glass from his shirt pocket and inspected the area further. "Point blank range. Not a lot of powder, though. Odd." John decided now was the best time to put his two cents in. "I'd venture to guess she passed out from the shot and then died of blood loss." Sherlock nodded, obviously in agreement. He looked to Lestrade and said, "Someone dropped her off here, there's no blood around. During the night, it rained. Her body may have been a good ten meters higher, but she washed down here. Look, you can see the marks in the sand."

It got quiet for a moment and you could hear pictures being snapped for evidence. Sherlock sighed, reaching into her coat pocket and taking out a wallet. "Arianna Williams," he said, the name rolling off his tongue as he flipped through her credit cards and store memberships. "She's loaded," John observed. "Wow."

John groaned with ache as he got up. He looked around. "Cigarettes," he said, noticing a pack of Benson & Hedges near the stone of the bridge. They weren't twelve meters from the body. Sherlock glanced at him as he walked over to them. "I think those were our victims. Good eye, John." Lestrade bagged the cigg pack, looking down at them thoughtfully. "Well… What can you tell me as of right now, Sherlock?"

The consulting detective got up, tossing his magnifying glass into his pocket. "It's all quite clear, actually. The bullet wound to the chest is what killed her. Though, I can't find anything on her that would be cause for murder. Perhaps it was over money." He huffed out a breath, looking to John. "Until we've found her residence and I can see more, I'm afraid that's all I can tell you, Lestrade." He put a finger to his lips. "But, well, another odd thing, she doesn't look like a smoker. Of course, she could have just started. I do think that pack may have been on her person and just happened to fall out when she washed down." By now, he was talking more to himself than John and the DI.

Lestrade called over the ME's, giving them the 'go ahead' to move her body and bring her down to the morgue. "Thanks, Sherlock," Greg said, his eyes sincere. "Tomorrow you can go have a look at her, she'll be in Molly's care. She's on duty tomorrow, I think." Sherlock nodded his head a little. "No problem. You know I can't resist a good murder..." A smirk was playing on his lips, and he waited for the DI and his blogger to follow him.

Anderson stopped them before they could reach the crime scene tape. "Don't you smoke?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Maybe he's finally gone and done it. Murderer." Sherlock rolled his eyes and pushed passed him. "Sodd off, I'm not a murderer." With a lopsided grin, he turned back to Anderson. "Though, if I was going to kill anyone, it'd probably be you." John looked over his shoulder at the idiot they all called Anderson. "He stopped smoking a long time ago, buzz off."


	2. I Wish You Didn't Know Me So Well

After leaving the crime scene, John elected to go to the Chinese restaurant down the street from their flat. Sherlock was uncharacteristically hungry and all be damned if John would pass up a chance to get the man to eat _something_. They sat in silence as they ate. It wasn't all bad, though. The background noise of the restaurant killed any awkwardness that may have ensued, and after a while the silence kind of became comfortable. They didn't need to talk; they just needed each other's company. That had always been a given. Both Sherlock and John thought over the details from the crime scene. The shorter, blonde haired man couldn't tell what Sherlock was thinking but he knew he had at least a few theories because he had _that _look. He was bound to do a few experiments when they got home.

John munched on his lo mein, occasionally looking up at his friend to make sure he hadn't fallen asleep in his moo shoo chicken stuff or whatever it was. He caught Sherlock looking at him the last time. "What?" the consulting detective asked. His voice was hoarse and he sounded exhausted. "You keep looking at me. There something you want to say?" He wiped his mouth with his napkin as he leaned an elbow on the table. There was a certain patience in his movements and it surprised John. Sherlock was not a patient man, not by any means.

When everything in John screamed 'Tell him you love him, you big git,' all he could do was nod his head. However, the words just refused to leave his lips. "I'm such a scaredy cat," he muttered under his breath. He fiddled with the hem of the table cloth, then with the napkin in his lap a little. 'He wouldn't have kissed you if he didn't care about you,' he thought. 'Get a grip on yourself.' Sherlock watched him with a soft expression, one that John had only been lucky enough to catch a few times. To be honest, it didn't help, it just made him more nervous.

"I, uh, I, um," John stuttered as he tried to form words. Nothing even close to the English language left his lips and he ended up just shutting his mouth. He grinded his teeth a little in anger and let out a sigh. Sherlock raised his eyebrows at John as he waited for the man to gather his thoughts. "It's fine, John, go on..."

"Sherlock, I, well…" John began but stopped. He rubbed his face and laughed gently at himself. He felt like he was being so stupid. "Well, you know, I care…" Sherlock reached across the table and put his hand over the doctor's. "John, take it easy," he began. "You haven't taken one breath since you started talking. Air is good. Breath." John gave Sherlock a grateful look. He was only teasing him to make him feel better. It should have been awkward, their hands touching, but it wasn't. If anything, John felt himself relax. He closed his eyes for a long moment before looking back up at the dark haired detective. "Sherlock…" All he could say right was the man's name. 'How ironic,' John thought with a little smile.

Sherlock went to pull his hand away, but John got him before he could really pull away. He was trembling and he prayed to God that Sherlock wouldn't notice. That however, was folly. John neither believed in God nor wanted to settle for denial. Sherlock made a living on noticing things. He notices _everything_. It drove John mad sometimes.

John suddenly couldn't find the words. He thought he knew what he wanted to say but in reality, he didn't. Maybe all the stuttering threw him off. He frowned, looking down at their joined hands.

He had to say something after all, so he settled on another thing that was bugging him. "Are… Are you sure having a case right now is such a good idea?" Sherlock looked confused and he blinked a few times. "What? Why?" John made a face as he answered. "I'm a doctor, Sherlock." The man sitting opposite him laughed softly while he pushed a hand through his dark hair. "I do believe that's been established, yes." John sighed and looked back up Sherlock before coming back with a comment. "Don't be a smartass, it's not cute on you." His voice couldn't have been more endearing and Sherlock smiled. "You hardly sound threatening," he threw back. John ran his thumb along Sherlock's knuckles, noticing scars that he'd never known existed. "Really Sherl… I'm worried about you."

The detective pulled his chair up and leaned in closer to John. He probably would have argued the fact that it was easier for them to talk but John knew better. The movement was so well thought out. John's breath actually caught in his throat and he swallowed hard. "I thought we went over that, too?" Sherlock asked, his eyes teasing. He was referring to the _kiss_ and the moment John realized it, his ears erupted with a bright red, like they were Chinese lanterns. Sherlock leaned in a little closer to his friend, his eyebrows drawn together. "John, I'm fine," he told him. "Really." The two were dangerously close, and in a restaurant, no less. People could see them. 'People will probably talk,' John thought and mentally sighed.

John could smell Sherlock's cologne, his shampoo, even the breath mints he liked to chew on. It all made his head dizzy. "No, you're not," the good doctor argued and sat back. He always put his chin up when he meant not to let something important go and it made Sherlock heave a sigh. "I know you're not alright." Sherlock quirked a brow and then shook his head. "Yes, I am. I think I would know better than you, dear boy. I don't know why you think differently," he chirped in response, his voice almost indignant. He spoke softly as so people couldn't hear their conversation. At most, they probably just _looked_ like an old married couple talking. He didn't need people hearing them and knowing them _sounded_ like one, too. John just shook his head and let the man's hand go.

He thought for a moment before he decided to squash Sherlock's little moment of triumph. "Normally, I'll catch you asleep, even if it's at odd hours. In fact, it usually is…" He leaned in a little closer to Sherlock to let him know he was mad. "I don't remember seeing you sleep at all this past week, not since we finished up that last case." The one thing, that one huge thing that Sherlock admired about John was usually the very same thing that often drove him up the wall. John was a stubborn git. "Come on, John. Don't be ignorant. You know that doesn't mean I haven't _slept _at all." John's facial expression didn't budge at all.

The waitress came to the table and dropped off the check. "Thank you, Maria," John said and gave her a smile. "No problem, John," she told him and squeezed his shoulder, before walking off to attend to other customers. When John looked back over at his flat mate, he could have sworn he saw something akin to jealously in his expression but it quickly passed. The funny part was that John and Maria went way back and she was probably the only woman alive that he'd never had an interest in or made a move on. He almost laughed at that. Almost. Instead, he let out a long sigh.

"I hate when you deny things, Sherlock, like being exhausted for instance. That last case was a doozy, I wish you would just admit that. That damn woman pulled the trigger on her own _son _in front of you and I know it-" Someone near them dropped a fork and it cut John's sentence short. Silence fell between them and he looked over at the old man who was laughing while he picked up his utensil. It was too loud in the restaurant and he was beginning to get a headache.

"John," Sherlock began but he let the sentence trail off. He said his name as if it was anything and everything he ever uttered, like the man he speaking to was the very reason he was still living, not just existing. The ex-army doctor raised a brow in question at Sherlock, almost begging him to finish that thought. "I wish you didn't know me so well," Sherlock said dejectedly and John suddenly felt as if someone had stolen the air from his poor lungs. "Sorry?" He asked but received no reply. Sherlock was busy pulling cash out of his wallet to cover the tab. "Let's go home," he told his friend as he tossed the cash on top of the printed bill, along with a nice tip for Maria. "I want to look over the case file, again."


End file.
